


Normal Is the Watchword

by LittleDidTheyKnow



Series: College AUs [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College Private Detective, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDidTheyKnow/pseuds/LittleDidTheyKnow
Summary: Jessica Jones is trying to get through her second-semester midterms at Columbia University when she’s approached by a student who “needs her help.”Jessica’s “doesn’t give a shit” attitude is far outweighed by her need for quick cash and her ability to get things done. That’s how she got her reputation for being Columbia’s unofficial badass P.I.In other words, here's a Jessica Jones College AU a la Veronica Mars!





	Normal Is the Watchword

**Author's Note:**

> Veronica Mars gave me my introduction to Krysten Ritter, so I can't help but see the similarities between Jessica and one of my favorite TV show's titular characters.
> 
> I'm not used to first-person present, so forgive me if there are mistakes. 
> 
> Posted for WIP week on Tumblr. I only have chapter one written and an idea for the end, so don’t expect anything for a long time/at all. But I did have fun with this and it was really easy to write, so, who knows?

* * *

Sometimes I wonder why people think I’m approachable. It’s like I’m a jackass magnet. They see me sitting on the floor at the very back of the library by the “lost languages” stacks, and say things like:

“Jessica Jones? You have to help me.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t even know who this guy is. But at the same time, I _know_ who this guy is. Polo shirt, designer jacket, and slacks. _Slacks._ His shirt costs more than my entire outfit, boots included. Don’t tell me how I know this. I just do.

“Tell someone who cares.”  
  
“They said you were abrasive, but damn.”  
  
Stop grinding your teeth, Jones. You can't punch this guy through a wall if you want to blend in like you'd intended the moment you discovered your strength. That would be the complete and total opposite of  _blending in._

At least my glare has the desired effect. He takes two steps back, which would be funny to an outsider considering the fact that I’m sitting on the floor and he could probably break into a run in the amount of time it’d take for most people to jump up. _Most people_.

“Dude, it’s midterms. That is the response you’d get from literally everyone in this library right now. But just in case you were wondering, telling someone you don’t even know that they 'have to help you' and expecting them to actually do so is pretty ridiculous. And insulting them would make them even less inclined to give a shit.”  
  
He looks surprised, which tells me he isn’t told off nearly as much as he deserves to be. With any other person, a mental slap across the face would be enough for them to do a 180 and leave. Not this guy. He pastes on a grin and goes for “charismatic.” It makes me want to punch him right in the overly-whitened teeth.

“Fair enough." _Don't chuckle, don't chuckle, don't._.. Goddamn it. He chuckled. Why do these privileged assholes think condescension is the way to people's hearts? "I’m Troy Powers... So now we’re past the small issue of you not knowing who I am. And I’m told you’re the person to come to with my particular problem.”

_Troy Powers._ Even the last name makes me want to gag. He’s probably been told his entire life that he could run the world and his last name has confirmed it each day. But that’s the problem with going to this school. You run into rich douchebags who see their family name on school buildings every day. And they just expect you to bow down and fulfill their every need.  

“That doesn’t negate the fact that I am studying for midterms, _Troy_.”

“What if I made it worth your while?”

I don’t even need to look up to know that the brown bag he’s removing from his backpack contains some sort of liquor. Top Shelf? Doubt it. But probably some sort of middle-grade whiskey or tequila if I’m reading him right. Something to make me think he isn't cheap but to still hold on to that allowance he's getting from his parents. Who am I kidding? He's got a gold-plated credit card that has no limit weighing those slacks down.

I don’t raise my eyes from my book, generating a scoff that would put a spring in my step if I weren't physically and mentally exhausted.  
  
“Is that gonna get me a passing grade on my anatomy midterm?”  
  
“No, but—”  
  
“Then I’m not interested.”  
  
“I guess what they’re saying isn’t true…”

Don't respond, Jones. You know it's going to be asinine and you know it's going to cause a _scene._    
  
“What’s that?” _Damn it._  
  
“That you are willing to do anything for a fifth of- “

Some underestimate my reflexes. It makes it easier to catch them off guard and give them a deserved rude awakening. Troy falls into that category. 

He groans as I slam him into a bookshelf and books pelt him in the head. One hits into my arm, but I don’t give a shit. Anything to put this tool in his place.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry, ok??? Just put me _down!”_

“You can’t yell in a library, _Troy._ Be more _considerate_.” 

“I’m just really frustrated. Someone keeps stealing from me, and it’s turning me into an asshole."  _Right._ This is a  _new_ development. "I’ll pay… Well. Will that suffice?” I loosen my grip and he plays up catching his breath as his Oxfords find the ground again. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a money clip which is clasped around a roll of twenties. Who the hell carries this much money? Then he fans out ten of them and looks at me like I’ve hit the jackpot. For a second, I really hope my face conveys “fuck you,” but he confirms that by sighing and counting out five more.

_Fuck me_ , I’m going to take it. I know this as my last experience at the bookstore plays loudly in the back of my brain. $300 will cover at least… two books. Jesus Christ.

The smile across his face is almost enough for me to throw the money back in his face. Almost. He rubs his shoulder pathetically and picks up his briefcase and the brown bag, but I snatch the latter which gives _him_ a surprise, and smile at him just begging him to argue. He just shrugs and like it’s nothing, telling me this is already a mistake.

My jaw is starting to hurt from clenching so hard.

“Something tells me you’ve always been an asshole, Troy.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

* * *

Troy Powers is New York, born and bred. His family _came over on the Mayflower._ They _built_ this country. But grandpa was getting fed up with the common sounding last name, so he changed it to Powers about 60 years ago like it wasn’t obvious that he wanted you to know what he had over you.

But Troy had a problem. Even in the most expensive dorm room in the building (a corner double converted to a single of course), things would go missing mysteriously. Expensive things. He was dumb enough to tell me he should have used his father’s expensive condo instead of these ‘low-rent’ dorm rooms, but his mother wanted him to have a _college_ experience.

He is everything I can’t stand about people.

And what’s worse, he basically wants me to go on a scavenger hunt for him. He won’t go into detail about what was stolen, like that is somehow helpful to me, but I’ll get it out of him or that’ll be it. Because not knowing is a waste of my time. But there are other things I can focus on for now.  

“Ow!”

It feels like my knee is on fire. The culprit? A white and red cane connected to a guy with red glasses.

“Sorry, I… Are you sitting on the floor?”

“What gave you the first clue?”

_Damnit_. He’s blind and for some reason, he’s smiling at me with perfect teeth and surprisingly charming wrinkles around his eyes. I hate it when people go “nice” instead of just calling me out. It fills me with guilt, just like my mother said it would when I was a kid.

That’s what I get for being an un-observant asshole. A memory of my dead mother and _guilt_.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s a reason I have a reputation for getting things done, and I have a great eye for detail when I need to have one. But today I have a buzz from the surprisingly decent bourbon, which would be great if it wasn’t coupled with a headache that’s bordering on migraine. My ability to just stop once I’ve had a little too much is not so great, however.

“Sorry.” I say as genuinely as I can muster.

I swear, his fricken smile is lighting up the damn hallway. “That’s ok. You know these floors are nasty, right?”

Oh, I know it. They’re so nasty that this pair of jeans isn’t going to be worn another three days like I’d planned. Who am I kidding? I don’t have time to do laundry. I’d cringe if I was able to feel more than guilt, exhaustion, and the rare, but annoying “charmed” from smiley over there. Just put those teeth away like a _normal_ human, whoever the fuck you are.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Waiting” is kind of a stretch. Being a lookout near the douchebag’s dorm is more accurate.

“Well, you can come wait in my room if you want. I'm guessing you're waiting for Troy?”

Egh. Just hearing it said out loud makes some of the bourbon come back up.

“I am. But that’s ok.”

“If you’re worried about missing him, you won’t. His door hinges need to be replaced, so I can hear him every time he goes into his room. I keep asking maintenance to take care of it so I don’t hear the constant…” He pauses, and it makes me wonder if he’s trying not to embarrass me or something. God only knows how many girls are left “waiting” for Troy. **“** We can leave my door open so you’re comfortable and you can see.”

_That_ is unexpected. So unexpected that I can’t even believe it’s my own voice saying, "I guess I can do that….” until he reaches a hand out to help me up.

There’s that smile again _._ “Don’t worry, I’m just going to be studying. You won’t even have to talk to me.”

He’s pretty perceptive, I will say that.

He opens the door I start to think this guy is less put together than I thought. “You get robbed or something?”

“What? Oh, that’s Foggy’s side of the room.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Franklin ‘Foggy’ Nelson. He is a slob, that I can’t deny. And he’s 50 times worse during midterms.”

“I guess it’s lucky you don’t have to see this…” _Damn it._ “Sorry.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve apologized more than I’ve spoken actual words to this guy, but he smiles at me again.

“Don’t worry about it. And believe me, I can smell it just fine. That's the worst part.”

I can’t smell much more than the lingering bourbon on my breath, but I’ll believe him. And he does as promised, grabbing a book and taking the bed so that I can sit at his desk. It’s got a straight view of the door once it’s turned around.

“So you were going to say something. About Troy’s ‘visitors...’”

He purses his lips like he hoped I’d miss that. “Oh, I didn’t mean to… He has a lot of friends, that’s all.”

“Are you one of them?”

His answer is quick and clear. “No.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to pretend like I _don’t_ think your friend is an asshat.” He chuckles and confirms what I already suspected.

“Something tells me you don’t _pretend_ to spare people’s feelings often.”

_Like I said, this guy is surprisingly perceptive._


End file.
